Nana's House

The white Victorian on the edge of the green

gingerbread lace hanging from the eaves

veranda on the corner

neatly tucked in.

Enter through the red front door

you are welcomed,

wrapped in love, embraced by time,

these old things that once were hers:

that old rug, faded and worn,

that certain floorboard that squeaks and sets the tea cups rattling

in the china cupboard

when you pass by.

There is her rocker, empty now but still, I hear its distant music.

I know the yellow paint is peeling off the kitchen walls,

and views out these windows are wobbly from antique glass panes,

but, this room holds her presence,

—cooking at the stove

—feeding grandpa at the old gray Formica table

—preparing holiday dinners

—grading student papers in the evening.

Nana’s house is where we gathered

as a family clan so many years ago.

Now everyone has moved on

far and wide and involved

In their own lives

Yet we all have threads trailing behind us

and tying us back

to this old Home.

 ~Kathie Adams Brown (April 13, 2014)

NaPoWriMo 2015 / 30 Poems in 30 Days

The Old Red Barn

There is a place of dreams,

an old red barn with memories

of my grandfather who was

and now is not,

Buried beneath a granite slab

with Nana now by his side.

How do I recall the days that were?

With him walking the earth

With him feeding the cows

With him cutting the hay

With him in his chair silently puffing his pipe

With him fishing along the banks of Black Ledge Creek

With him rushing out the door during Christmas dinner, donning his fireman’s hat as he went.

With him that one and only time he let me help pluck the feathers from the warm breast of a pheasant he had shot—a task usually reserved for his grandsons.

And we stood behind the old red barn

Where his fishing boat stayed in the winter

Only to be towed back to Moosehead Lake in Maine the next summer

To the place of his dreams and deep desires,

the place he brought his bride to all those long years ago,

the place that he loved,

the place of his being,

the place that he died one summer.

But the old red barn is empty now

Save for his memory

or his ghost.

~Kathie Adams Brown (April 1, 2015)

Why I Can't be a Minimalist

I want to be a minimalist but…

…I like the feel of my tea cup in my hands
warm, and round and pretty.

Today I like this one but,
tomorrow I may want to use another one,
a different one
for my coffee or my tea or my hot chocolate

a different cup for
a different kind of tea
or a different holiday,
or a different friend,
or a different memory,

because I have so many
(friends and memories that is)
as well as tea cups
(more than 40 I’d say)

So how can I have less than 100 things
as proposed by some people nowadays?

For me that would mean throwing away all tangible connections
to people, places and pleasures

the Simple Pleasure that I get
from drinking tea or coffee
from whichever tea cup I am in the mood for

today.

~Kathie Adams Brown (October 27, 2010)

• NaPoWriMo 2014

Before the White-winged Dove Returns

White-winged Dove in my Tucson yard 4-13-2013

I will be gone before the White-winged Dove returns

Before the monsoon rains scent the desert air again;

I will not be here to see the lesser nighthawks slice through the twilight

Or hear the twittering chatter of purple martins in flight.

I will not see the cactus bloom this year,

painting the desert in a riot of color in spring

as Palo Verdes burst with yellow blossoms along tree lined streets.

There is no way to convey this desert landscape.

You must be here to smell the fragrance of creosote after the rains;

You have to stand on your patio on a moonlit night and feel the desert wind caress your legs

While the coyote chorus sings down the canyon and calls up the moon.

You must be here to hear the Cactus Wrens cackle on a hot summer’s day,

Or hear the Rock Wrens trill from the mountain slopes.

I will not be here when the white-winged dove returns to perch on saguaro blossoms,

But, I will know they are here.

I have seen them before and I will know they are here again—desert birds in a desert landscape

Rich with life and memories of things seen and done and still to be done

When the white-winged dove returns.

~kathie adams brown (January 28, 2014)

November Days

These are November Days,

Gray skies, unsettled weather, unsettled memories.

November skies are filled with longing,

longing for another place,

for the lost past,

for families and for love.

I feel that longing like a skein of wild geese honking out their cries

as they wing across the skies.

I feel that restlessness

Inside

and wonder where my wings are

and why I cannot fly.

The memories of passing years float up like clouds from the deep,

and I remember laughter, and a warm kitchen and standing with my Nana

While she stirred white pepper into smooth brown gravy in her farm kitchen

at Thanksgiving Time.

November days are wild days of longing and families and love.

~kathie adams brown (November 27, 2013)

September Moon

Moonrise over the Rincon Mountains

The harvest moon
rising full behind the Rincon Mountains,
a glowing orb in a cobalt sky,
with poorwills calling from the rocky canyons
and a dry desert wind running free
like a ghost horse
between cactus and sagebrush
telling me an age-old story,
whispers from the past
illuminated by the light
of a September moon.

~kathie adams brown (September 20, 2013)

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Gold, Green and Gray Days

Covered Bridge at Devil's Hopyard State Park 6-29-2013

Gold, green and gray,

These are the days

Of early summer in New England

When the sun has yet to dominate,

And mosquitoes start to rise on clouds

From wet forests and flooded fields,

Where humidity turns into rain

And back again

In the ageless alchemy of water

and life

and emerald.

It is the time before the blazing days of summer

When everything starts to wither and wilt

And turn brown.

These are the gold, green, and gray days,

The pensive days, the dreaming days,

The remembering.

~Kathie Adams Brown (July 23, 2013)

My Mother's Painting

She let me pick the one I wanted

I liked the way she painted the pond,

the grasses and the rolling hills,

and the small red barn along the hedgerow.

I have never seen this place,

Yet it is everyplace I played

as a child.

It is the pond where my siblings and I

fed bread to small fishes,

It is the barn behind my grandparent’s house,

Those are the hills I ran upon,

that is the tree I climbed,

It is a collection of all the places

--from my childhood,

--from my memory,

--from her paintbrush

--to my heart.

~Kathie Adams Brown (April 1, 2013)

I Remember the Girl

You look at me and what do you see?

White hair, thick middle, varicose veins?

I am getting old, it’s true.

We all do

But inside I am young, fierce, and passionate!

I can remember my long brown hair,

My slender waist,

My muscular legs.

I can remember leaping a brook,

jumping from stone to stone like a doe.

I can remember running through green pastures full of waist high grass

My long hair streaming behind me like a mane,

feeling as frisky as a young filly.

I can remember climbing trees like a monkey and

gazing down through the foliage at the ground

so far below.

I can remember swimming strong in the ocean,

Riding waves on my belly,

And rolling up on the sand to the sounds of seagulls calling.

Yes, I was young once—we all are;

Once.

And I can remember the girl.

~kathie adams brown (April 24, 2013)

NaPoWriMo 2013/30 Poems in 30 Days

Scarecrow

I am just a scarecrow dancing in the dark,

No one wants to play with me,

When I’m at the park,

It seems I am not like them,

I have a funny face,

I walk a different way,

I think at slower pace,

My stuffing’s always falling

Out upon the ground

And though my face is smiling

Inside I wear a frown,

Not because I’m angry,

But because I’m sad,

I only want to be included

In the group so bad,

So off in darkness is where I dance

Upon my secret stage

Where no one can deride me

For the games I play,

No sees the dance I do,

No one hears my song,

Still, I keep on singing,

In hopes that I’ll belong.

~Kathie Adams Brown (October 12, 2012)

• One Single Impression 
• Prompt 241: Scarecrow

The Churches Stood

Oklahoma City National Memorial 3-19-10 (photo by Gusto!)

The churches stood in golden sunlight

on an ordinary day

and felt the force of anger

tear all those lives away

the steeples pierced the sky

to show the souls the way

to enter heaven's glory

while others had to stay

and weep 1000 tears

while others watched and prayed

for all the families hurt

by the violence of that day

A nation stood united

against that kind of hate

a memorial was built

to commemorate that date

when love was stronger than

the force of such despair

when people came together

to mark what happened there.


~kathie adams brown (6-27-04)

The chairs of the Oklahoma City National Memorial 3-19-10 by Gusto!

(Each chair represents a person who was killed in the bombing.)

Yeah, I Blew the Curve

But since we are reminiscing

And talking about blowing the curve

I can well remember the day I did

And the crash, the smash, the shattered glass

The unconsciousness of it all

The struggle to release myself

The struggle to be free

Before the car blew up

For that’s all I knew from the movies.

I was only just learning to drive

Had my learner’s permit

And the experienced driver sat near the door

And the other young man sat in-between

And fiddled with the radio and fought with me as I

turned the knobs, as I

turned the corner

as the licensed driver

reached across us both

and grabbed the wheel and

turned it!

Turned into a rock wall

That didn’t give an inch

And the other driver of the other car

A 70 year old man

Smashed!

 Into us

Smashed!

 into his windshield

Smashed!

His face.

We all stumbled out

Into silence. 

Dazed silence.

And then, sirens!

Wailing, screaming, and rushing in!

How I clung to the ambulance workers,

How I clung on for dear life!

The ambulance came and whisked me away

To intensive care

With my liver ruptured and bleeding. 

Yeah, I blew the curve,

but not without help

 and not without consequences

That linger.

~Kathie Adams Brown (2-1-10)

OSI Prompt: Blowing the curve

Christmas Nana

Christmas Mouse 1998 by Kathie Brown Acrylic on posterboard

I love to go to Nana’s house
at happy Christmas time
I love to eat the turkey
And smell the Christmas pine
I love to see her smile
And bustle round the house
Making everything just perfect
For each grandchild and each spouse
And though my Nana’s little,
Only ’bout five foot tall
Her heart is quite enormous
Filled with love for one and all!

~Kathie Adams Brown (1985)

Skywatch Friday: The Yellow House

Introduction: Today's post if from a book I made about a short 4 month period that we lived in a little yellow house in Westfield, Maine. We had moved there in 1996 after Gus took a buyout from his company to attend college at the University of Maine in Presque Isle. While we hoped to buy the house and live there forever it was not to be, but the short time we lived there is full of rich memories. This is the first in a series of posts about life in the Yellow House. (All words and images are copyrighted by kathiesbirds 2008)

Dotted Swiss Memories

Sunsets in a kitchen window
washing supper remnants away
while children leap
through rose and gold light
dotted Swiss memories.

~kathiesbirds (copyright 1997)

Click on the button to view other Skywatch photos.

Go to Sycamore Canyon to see my other Skywatch entry.

The Old Barn

(New England Barn in my Memory; graphite on paper scketch 1997 by Kathie)

Through the doorway
of the old red barn
a memory lingers
in the fragrant bales
stacked to the ceiling,
while below in their
stanchions
the pungent odor of
milk and manure
rises from
black and white
cud-chewing contentment
on the hoof.

~Kathiesbirds (June 30, 2008)

And Mom Said We Could!

I remember a thunder storm

A day when we played in the mud

And Mom said we could!

I remember sliding,

Gliding in

Black sticky ooze,

And laughing, laughing,

All of us laughing,

And Mom said we could!

And my brothers

And sister and I

Were all one

In the fun

Of the sticky, black oozing mud,

And Mom said we could!

~kathiesbirds (12 May 1988)

Click here to view other poems from One Single Impression: Freedom

Memories

(Plaster sculpture by Kathie 1998)

Memories are shadows that cling to your thoughts,
Memories are ghosts that know no time,
Haunting you day and night.
Memories are clouds that block out the sun,
The fog in the morning,
The mist on the lake.
Memories are the wind, rushing in,
Disturbing the cobwebs
And rushing out again.
Memories are a never ending record,
Repeating, repeating,
Teasing, laughing, convicting,
An endless echo of times gone by.




~Kathie (11-7-74)